


Letting Go

by LadyVegeets



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-01-17 20:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12373083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVegeets/pseuds/LadyVegeets
Summary: What does Bulma and the Super Saiyan form have in common? Vegeta can't control either.





	1. 01 Soft Blushes

**Letting Go** , by LadyVegeets

_Written for the 2017 October Vegebul Smutfest hosted by[ThePrinceAndTheHeiress](http://tpthvegebulsmutfest.tumblr.com)_

 

“In the process of letting go you will lose many things from the past, but you will find yourself.” - Deepak Chopra

 

**1 - Soft Blushes**

 

Vegeta loathed the lilac ceiling tiles in what Bulma had come to dub ‘the recovery room’. An appropriate name, given it was where Vegeta found himself when he overdid it during training. The first time he woke up here had been perplexing to say the least. In a fit of rage to achieve the Super Saiyan form, he had destroyed the gravity machine and himself. Waking up with an oxygen mask on was familiar, but where he expected to be suspended in a healing tank, instead he was laying in a bed with his blue-haired host at the bedside table next to him, asleep. That had been… odd. Vegeta left as soon as possible to resume training, much to Bulma’s ire. He didn’t know why she cared so much, or why her concern irked him like a fly buzzing around his head.

He continued to push himself to his limits. Further injury was inevitable, and on this backwater planet without a healing chamber that meant suffering Bulma’s first-aid. She tended to him while he did his best to ignore her, counting the tiles overhead and pretending that her presence didn’t invoke something within him. 

But she did, and it was troubling. Vegeta wasn’t used to emotions that couldn’t be categorized as anger, disappointment, indifference, or amusement at the expense of others. Bulma fit none of those, making him feel… differently. Vegeta didn’t like different. He didn’t trust it. So he tried to ignore her, glowering with suspicion as she chatted to him in the recovery room, her soft fingers stroking his arms more than he thought was necessary while applying his bandages. He ground his teeth whenever she gave him long looks with her twinkling baby-blues that had his stomach knot and his blood pressure spike. 

What feeling was this?

Nausea?

Whatever it was, it was unnerving. Especially as he couldn’t figure out her motivations. Those who had helped him in the past had done so because of one reason: fear. Fear of him, or fear of Frieza. But she wasn’t afraid. It was unsettling, especially because he couldn’t dismiss her as being too dense to comprehend the monster she housed. She knew precisely who and what he was. She was smart. The longer he stayed in her house, the more he came to grudgingly realize that fact, and the more unsettled he felt. She fixed the gravity machine whenever it malfunctioned, and she invented the battle drones after he had complained of needing a bigger challenge. Her cleverness also extended beyond machines. She had wit enough to engage him in repartees, so much so that he found himself watching what he said about her. And she had a tempter to match his. But more than anything, he hadn’t failed to notice that Kakarot’s little friends all deferred to her despite her pathetically low ki. 

She was important, and dangerous. Her girlish smiles and fluttering eyelashes hid fearsome intelligence and power. In retrospect, it made sense. Any half-decent operation needed at least one person with brains, and Kakarot and his ragtag team of delinquents certainly didn’t fit that bill. But she did. Bulma was the Frieza of Earth’s little empire.

He couldn’t let his guard down around her. 

Which is why the next time Vegeta hurt himself and Bulma tried sticking him with a needle, he grabbed her hand and slammed it — and her — against the nearest wall. He barely needed to flex his fingers to get her to drop the weapon, the needle falling harmlessly to the floor.

“If you try that again, woman, I will end you,” he growled in warning, pressing the full length of his body against hers to show he meant his threat. 

Her eyes had flown impossibly wide, her breathing accelerated. Fuck, it felt good to dominate her, to crush her soft tiny frame under his. Too long he had played the meek house guest, but no more. It was time to remind her that he was not one of Kakarot’s little buddies that she could boss around. 

“Try what?” She asked, her voice breathless in what he hoped was fear. “Vegeta, it was just a local anesthetic.”

“Says you,” he countered, refusing to admit he didn’t even know what an ‘anesthetic’ was. From her tone it was something benign, but like _hell_ he was going to take her word for it or let her jab him with a foreign substance.

“Yes, says me,” she replied wryly. “All those with a medical degree, raise your hand.” 

Both their eyes looked up to where Vegeta had her hand pinned high against the wall. Bulma smirked. Vegeta grimaced, and looked back at her. 

“Cute,” he snarked, a little miffed that she was cracking jokes when she should be begging for her life. “But your charms won’t spare you if you try and drug me again.”

She sighed. “Vegeta, if I wanted to drug you, I would have done it to your food.”

…Shit. She had a point.

Not that he was going to admit that.

“I can smell food that’s been tampered with,” he bluffed. It wasn’t entirely a lie, he did have a good sense of smell but it wouldn’t save him if she spiked his meals. Earth’s food was still foreign to him. Half the things he ate he couldn’t place the flavors of, it would be so easy for her to poison him. Was he really going to have to start mistrusting his food? She wouldn’t dare, would she?

“Oh, Son has a good sense of smell too,” she replied, her voice strangely quieter than before. “Is that a Saiyan thing?”

Ah good, she bought it. “It is,” he confirmed. Their faces were so close that their brows nearly touched **.** “Saiyans are superior to you pathetic humans in all regards.”

Her throat bobbed. “…How much can you smell?” she asked nervously.

He loomed over her, inhaling deeply against her temple for show. “Everything. I can smell the morning dew in your hair. From yesterday.”

Her breath hitched, and she lowered her gaze. She touched his chest with her free hand, in a feeble attempt to push him away.

“…I think you should let go of me now,” she whispered.

His eyes narrowed, suspicious not only of her request, but the strangely meek way she asked it. 

“Why?”

She fidgeted and he tightened his hold on her wrist, suspecting some duplicity. 

“Ah,” she whimpered, her eyes fluttering up to meet his. They were dark, her pupils two black moons as endless as space, burning with something he had never seen before but wanted to lose himself to. The softest of blushes stained her cheeks. And there, so faint he almost hadn’t noticed, something sweet, feminine, and intoxicating perfumed her skin.

Holy shit.

He let her go in shock as though her skin burned, his own face turning red with realization. She lowered her gaze, tightened her lab coat about her and left. Vegeta stood alone in the recovery room, still bleeding, hurt, and now gutted with the knowledge that Bulma had been aroused in his arms.

 

~xox~


	2. 2 Heated Glances

**02 - Heated Glances**

 

Vegeta trained and trained and trained, as much for self-improvement as for sanctuary.

From her.

If she had evoked unsettling emotions in him before, he was not prepared for the onslaught of feelings that now awoke inside him every time their eyes met. Some switch in his brain had been turned on against his will, and where before carnal interests had been low — if not nonexistent — on his list of priorities, now they waged war for first place with his need to surpass Kakarot.

In some regard, Vegeta was relieved to know she desired him. Her motivations were now clear. She helped him out of lust.

Vulgar woman.

Not that he could blame her. Clearly, she was starved for worthy male attention. If the Clown, Scar-face, Three-eyes, the Fat one, and the Midget were the best that Earth could offer, it was little wonder Bulma was turning to a genocidal alpha-male alien that only months ago had tried to blow up her planet with everyone on it. Vegeta could understand her plight. He recognized an alpha female when he saw one. Bulma was gorgeous, smart, and feisty. Were she a Saiyan, she would have had her pick of suitors. She may even have been worthy of a prince’s time.

But this prince did not trust her, and he had more important things to do than whet his appetite between a pair of pale thighs.

He intensified his training, doing his best to avoid her while hoping that physical exertion would sate his desires, or at least exhaust him too much to have any. Yet the more he trained and pushed his limits, the more he risked injury. It wasn’t long before he found himself back in the goddamn recovery room. And the clever wench must have placed some kind of surveillance on him because she was there to meet him.

Vegeta sat stiffly on the table in only his training shorts and shoes, still covered in sweat and now wet with blood that ran down the right side of his face, dripping on his chest from a cut above his brow.

Bulma grimaced as she examined the wound. She stood face to face with him, today her curls tamed back into a haphazard bun. Her lab coat hung open, underneath a red dress hugged her figure in a way that put his own battle suit to shame. When she spoke, his eyes darted up to her face and he chastised himself for letting them wander.

“Jeez, Vegeta. I can see bone,” she tutted, her latex-gloved hands gently prodding at his wound. Well, of course she could see bone, he wouldn’t have come here just for a tiny scratch would he? In fact, he wouldn’t have come here at all except the wound was bleeding like a stuck Namekian and his vision was impaired because of it.

“This is going to need stitches,” she mused aloud.

“That will take too long,” he said curtly, scowling with disapproval. “Just stop the bleeding so I can get back to training.”

She stepped away, placing a fist on her her hip and pinning him with a stern look. “And how do you expect me to stop the bleeding without stitches? This will scar if I don’t. I think you have enough of those.” A teasing smile spread over her cherry lips. “Besides, it would be a shame to mar this handsome face of yours.”

He clenched his jaw but it was no use. Her compliment seeped under his skin and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. Goddamn her. She was shameless. Why wasn’t she the flustered one? She was the one who made a fool of herself at their last encounter but if she felt any shame, she didn’t show it.

“Just… do what you must and hurry it up,” he snapped, looking off to the side, needing to get this whole thing over with quickly so that he could return to the seclusion of the gravity room.

“Okay, okay, keep your shorts on. Or don’t. You won’t hear me complaining.”

He grit his teeth against her crude innuendo but thankfully her attention turned elsewhere as she set up a tray with a curved needle and thread. The needle was placed in a small dish of liquid that smelled unpleasantly astringent.

“What’s that,” he asked with suspicion.

“Antiseptic.”

He glared at it with distrust.

Bulma sighed. “I am not trying to poison you. Scout’s honor,” she said, holding up two fingers in a strange salute.

He frowned. “Who is Scout?”

Bulma lowered her hand. “…Never mind.” She pointed at the liquid. “Look, it’s so you don’t get an infection,” she explained as if to a child.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Saiyans don’t get sick.”

“That you know of,” she countered. “Earth has a lot of nasty bugs.”

“I can crush a bug as easily as I could crush you.”

“That’s not the kind of bug… You know what? Let’s move on.” She picked up a bottle of something. “Stay still. I need to irrigate your wound.”

“With that stuff?”

“Antiseptic? Yes.”

“No.”

“Vegeta! We just went over this.”

“And I told you that it was unnecessary.”

Bulma slammed the bottle of liquid down on the tray. “Fine! See if I care when your head swells up. Not that it could get any bigger with that ego of yours already inflating it to capacity.”

“Tch. Look who’s talking.”

“You are _such_ an ass,” she grumbled, picking up a cotton ball to angrily dab at his bleeding wound. 

He refused to wince though the wound stung. It was becoming clear to him that she was right about needing stitches. It wouldn’t stop bleeding, causing him to blink blood from his eye every few seconds. It was growing tiresome.

“Are you done yet?” he groused, his mood souring by the second.

“I would be halfway finished if you didn’t question every little thing I did,” she replied huffily. 

He grunted but had no further come-back. 

After she calmed down, Bulma put the blood-soaked cotton ball aside and took up her needle and thread. “Alright, ready? Try not to move. This is going to hurt. But I suppose you’re used to that.”

He contemplated for a moment arguing with her more and demanding that she replace the needle with one that hadn’t been soaked in god-knew-what, but he decided against it. It would only prolong their encounter, and as she had mentioned before there were better ways that she could poison him if she chose. So Vegeta chose the path of least resistance and set his jaw, staying still for her lest she jab him in the eye.  

The needle bit into his flesh. He didn’t flinch and to her credit, neither did she, her hand remaining smooth and steady as she sewed him up. 

“Try not to frown so much, would you?” she asked. “I mean… if you can. Can you? Goku smiles, so I assume Saiyans are capable.”

He glowered at her with one eye, his other squeezed shut against the blood sluicing down his face. She tried — and failed — to stifle a smile. Did she really plan on making fun of him the whole time?

“I smiled at the death of your friends,” he growled.

Bulma rolled her eyes. “That’s charming. You know, your face will stay like that if the wind changes.”

…What?

His puzzlement must have shown, for she laughed. “Don’t think about it too hard, Vegeta. It’s an expression we tell children when they make rude or grumpy faces.”

“You _lie_ to your offspring?”

Bulma paused, thinking for a second before going back to her work. “When you put it like that, yes, I suppose we do.”

Vegeta was secretly impressed that humans would be so underhanded with their spawn. “We don’t lie to ours,” he boasted.

“Why am I not surprised?” Bulma replied, almost sounding amused. “I guess you Saiyans take a more direct approach to teaching the ways of the world?”

“Yes,” he stated. “We don’t need to spin false tales to get our children to behave. They learn young that the world is cruel and fearful.”

“Lovely,” she drawled. 

He frowned. “It’s not supposed to be.”

“I… Yes, I know. It’s called sarcasm.”

Oh.

She continued sewing his wound in silence, and Vegeta wasn’t in a hurry to strike up more conversation. But the lack of dialogue meant he had nothing to distract himself from her. Her face was only inches from his own, her expression set in a look of concentration. She was infuriatingly beautiful: skin more pale than bone dust and just as powdery soft in appearance. Her eyes were so big and blue that he felt himself drown in them each time. Hell, even her goddamn nose was delicate and endearing. She was distracting, the pull she had on him: terrifying. Desires he never knew he had swelled and raged inside at being so close and alone with her. It was unsettling to think that there were parts of himself he was unfamiliar with, parts of himself that would betray him.

Vegeta squeezed his eyes closed, clenching his fists on his knees to try and regain some modicum of control. He endured the rest of Bulma’s stitches in meditative silence until she cut the thread, announcing, “All done.”

Vegeta opened his left eye (his right still stuck with blood) and instantly regretted doing so, falling head first into her blue gaze. She was staring right at him. He drowned in her scrutiny. 

What he would give for Kakarot’s ability to instant transmission right now. 

“You look frightful,” she commented, however her tone didn’t express fear but amusement. Warily, Vegeta watched as Bulma picked up a damp cloth and began tenderly wiping the blood from his right eye. The gesture was far more intimate than he was prepared for. Grooming in Saiyan culture was reserved for close family.

“Vegeta?” she asked, her voice soft as she caressed his face.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What?”

She leaned in closer, crossing all lines of personal space. It took everything he had not to lean away. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” she asked coyly.

 _Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum!_ His heart beat wildly as if preparing him for battle.

“…What?” he choked.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” she repeated, brushing the cloth against his cheek one last time before letting her hand drop away to stare intently, expectantly, into both of his eyes.

He struggled to think of a response. “What kind of ridiculous—”

Her gentle touch on his arm cut his denial short. They both looked down to his lap where his fists were clenched so tightly they trembled, his knuckles as white as her complexion. Goddamn her. Vegeta forced his hands to loosen, thinning his lips in humiliation as he looked askance.

Thankfully she backed off, rinsing out the bloody cloth. His reprieve, however, was short lived. The cool kiss of the cloth returned when she began wiping the blood from his torso. He watched her from the corner of his eyes. His skin prickled at the water, his nipples tightening painfully.

“Are you uncomfortable because I’m attracted to you?” she asked, her tone soothing as if speaking to a wild animal. 

Goddamn it, why wouldn’t she let the matter go?

“Woman,” he snarled in warning. Alarm bells rang in his head: _danger, danger, danger_.

The cool cloth drifted lower, rubbing circles over his belly. Droplets of water trickled underneath the waistband of his shorts, catching in the hair at the base of his swelling cock. His pulse quickened. This was getting out of control. He grabbed her wrist to still her hand. 

Her eyes met his. Her lips parted, her heated glance burned him to the spot.

“Or is it because _you_ are attracted to _me_?” she husked.

The truth of her accusation pierced him, more devastating than Frieza’s shot to the heart had been. He couldn’t respond, debilitated by her words.

She tilted her head to the side, hovering her mouth tantalizing close to his own. “How long has it been since you were with a woman?” she asked, syrupy-sweet. 

He wanted to die. That at least had not been this humiliating or soul-baring. 

She slid her hand down his abdominals towards his shorts, and for some reason he let her, his grip on her wrist merely clinging for support.

A slow Cheshire smile broke over her lips as her hand snuck under his waist band. He sucked in a sharp breath, the cool cloth touching something hot and aching he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” she reassured him, pressing her nose affectionately to his cheek, nuzzling his face. “I’m very good with my hands.”

 

* * *

~xox~

 

 **AN:** thanks for all the lovely comments and feedback guys. It means the world to me  <3

 


	3. 3 Just This Once

**03 - Just This Once**

 

The act of breathing was immense when 250 times Earth gravity was crushing his lungs. The gravity room burned a fierce unfriendly red. Vegeta liked the way it reflected his inner rage and how the intensity left him with little room for thought. Every ounce of concentration was needed to perform each movement precisely. Balancing on the tip of an index finger, he labored to complete his one-armed push-up regimen.

347.

348.

Sweat dripped off him, smacking into the floor with ferocious weight.

349.

 _I’m very good with my hands_.

The memory of her words smacked into him with the same brutal force as the gravity. Bulma hadn’t been lying. She had brought him to completion on the recovery room table within a matter of minutes, teasing him until he couldn’t take it anymore. He exploded over her fingers with a strangled groan. She soothed him through it, deftly cleaning him up with her cloth and kissing the corner of his mouth.

“See? That wasn’t so scary, was it, homeboy?” 

Before he could puzzle out what a homeboy was, she was gone. She might have stitched him up, but she had left him in pieces.

He avoided her at all costs after that. 

It wasn’t that he was afraid of her (him, afraid? Ridiculous), or even the physical intimacy she offered. It was his own lack of control that disturbed him. He didn’t know himself around her. Vegeta had spent his whole life schooling and disciplining his mind and body into being the perfect warrior. Every mission was his to triumph over, every peon and planet and skill-set his to master. 

Then Bulma came along with her big blue eyes and swaying hips and had thrown his control out the fucking window, leaving him gasping and trembling in an identity crisis.

For fuck’s sake. If he couldn’t control himself around one woman, how was he supposed to control the legendary power of the Super Saiyan?

_Concentrate!_

His arm trembled as he attempted rep 350—

—and collapsed. 

The GR echoed with the sound of his frustrated scream.

He cursed her, and her planet, and himself, and his life, and Kakarot just for good measure. He was supposed to be getting stronger, to fulfill his place and birthright and claim that elusive legendary power, yet he had never felt so weak or so helpless. 

When he crawled into his bed that night, bruised and wrecked from training, he closed his eyes and prayed that they wouldn’t open in the morning, just as they never should have done back on Namek. 

* * *

~xox~

 

He stared at his breakfast listlessly, ignoring the weight of eyes upon him. His presence in the kitchen was an anomaly for Bulma and her parents. This hour of the morning usually found Vegeta training in the GR, empty dishes in the sink the only indication that he had stopped for food. But today, he couldn’t motivate himself to go to that place of self-flagellation and defeat. It was pointless, futile, moronic.

He wouldn’t do it. _Couldn’t_ do it.

Uncertainty was not something Vegeta often dealt with, for good reason: doubt was crippling. Hesitation got you killed. He learned young to throw himself head-first into everything with complete conviction. It had served him well, kept him alive right up until a certain blue planet nearly became his grave, just before a green planet did (if only for a hot minute).

He could feel something like panic creeping up his spine. Days had turned to weeks had turned to months since his mad training to attain Super Saiyan had began, and still he had nothing to show for his efforts. Sure, he could handle more gravity, blow up things with a little more destructive power than before, but what of it? It didn’t compare to what Kakarot or that purple-haired whelp could do when they turned golden. It wasn’t enough. _He_ wasn’t good enough. And time was slipping through his fingers as swiftly as his control of the situation was. 

Vegeta’s doubts weighed heavily on him like chains, and he found himself unable to move, staring at his empty dishes as if they could provide him some answers.

“Vegeta honey, are you still hungry?” Bulma’s mother asked him in her too-cheery voice. “Do you want me to make you some pancakes?”

Vegeta’s eyes slid up to look at the matriarch before — against his will — gliding over to the daughter. Bulma was watching him with calculating eyes. He could see the cogs turning in her brain.

Uncomfortable under both women’s scrutiny, Vegeta looked back down at the counter and grunted with indifference. Mrs. Briefs took that as a ‘yes’ and started fussing in the kitchen.

Minutes later, hot steaming pancakes towered on his plate. He wasn’t especially hungry but eating at least gave him something to do. 

Mrs. Briefs tittered in pleasure, patting him on the shoulder. “Oh, it’s so nice to have someone in the house with such a healthy appetite. Look at those two, wasting away all day with their experiments,” she lamented, indicating her husband and daughter.

Vegeta raised his eyes to where Dr. Briefs and Bulma occupied a small table by the window, consuming their liquid breakfasts. Dr. Briefs drank his coffee, largely ignoring them for his newspaper. Bulma still had eyes only for Vegeta, sipping her coffee in quiet contemplation. 

He snorted around his mouthful of pancake, not agreeing with Mrs. Briefs’ assessment. Bulma wasting away? Hardly. The woman might have had a waist so slender he could wrap his hands around it, but her clothing stretched to capacity about her bust and hips.

Bulma raised a delicate brow in his direction.

Fuck. He was staring.

Vegeta looked down and shoveled another forkful of pancake into his mouth, chewing on it sourly.

Breakfast dragged on, the sun rising higher in the sky and still Vegeta did not move. Dr. Briefs finished his newspaper and with a peck on his wife’s cheek, he left to start his day. Mrs. Briefs inquired if Vegeta needed any more food, to which he merely grunted again. She interpreted this as a no, patting his arm (which he bore well, he thought), saying, “Okay honey, you just ask if you need anything,” and off she went.

Which left only him and _her_.

Bulma took a last sip of her coffee and placed her mug down.

“Taking the morning off?” she asked, finally addressing him.

He frowned, his hands tightening about knife and fork, his stomach churning from the sickly-sweet food now sitting uncomfortably in his belly. His scowl intensified when she stood and made a B-line right for him, stopping opposite his seat. Her hip canted to the side and she bestowed on him a knowing smile, seeing right through his half-eaten pancakes for what they were: a sad attempt to delay the inevitable.

“If you’re not busy, come with me. I want to show you something.”

He looked at her skeptically.

Her smile widened. “I promise to keep my hands to myself. Just this once,” she added with a sly wink.

He ground his teeth, struggling to fight back a blush. It was infuriating how she did that, twisting him up with a few lewd words. He should tell her to fuck off… but she was dangling before him that which he badly sought: an excuse not to train.

Pushing aside his plate with disgust, Vegeta stood up and followed Bulma deeper into the house away from the GR that clawed at his back, howling with his inner demons.

 

~xox~

 


	4. 4 Striptease

  **04 - Striptease**

 

He stood in her lab, eyeing the equipment and half-put together machinery. He had seen similar rooms before on Frieza’s outer stations. He did not much care for them. The room smelt unpleasant, of strange chemicals, motor oil, and burnt wires among other things. Bulma had asked him to take a seat but Vegeta remained standing, waiting for her to return from wherever it was she had ducked off to. He didn’t know why he was humoring her.

Well no, he knew perfectly well why. He was here because it meant putting off another day of self-inflicted torture that would result, like all the others, in nothing. Another futile day where he didn’t become Super Saiyan, where no matter how much he hurt or sweated or bled or screamed, nothing he did made a goddamn difference.

“Ta da!”

Bulma returned from a side room carrying a long rectangular box. She bounded up to his side and handed it to him with a beaming smile, her face flushed in expectation. Her expression threw him. Her smiles were normally more mocking, or so he thought, as if she were privy to some amusing secret that he wasn’t. But now she looked so genuine, so radiant. 

He distrusted it. It needed to be crushed.

“Here,” she insisted, thrusting the box as this chest. “It’s for you, dummy. Go on, open it.”

Vegeta didn’t like surprises but he also didn’t like secrets, so he took the box and cautiously opened the lid.

Bulma couldn’t stand still for her impatience. “Well? What do you think?” she gushed.

“It’s… my suit,” he said, staring at the familiar blue fabric. His battle suit was neatly folded in the box with a pair of pristine white gloves on top.

“Pfft, please!” she scoffed. “ _Your_ suit, if you remember correctly, was a complete wreck. But I used it to formulate you a new one. A _better_ one. See? This is lighter, stronger, more breathable _and_ weather resistant. It won’t stain or tear easily, and it’s totally seamless for maximum comfort.”

She leaned in, digging under the suit to reveal his white and gold chest armor. 

“And look here! I made you a new breastplate too. It’s also lighter and more flexible, and way more durable than your last one. You’re really going to have to work hard to break this sucker.”

Vegeta stared dumbly at her gifts. She was giving him battle armor, the same that he had died in while attempting to defend his people’s pride. She hadn’t just fixed it, she had recreated it and made it better. So much of his heritage had been taken from him over the years, so much lost, but with this gift Bulma had given him the chance to fight again in his royal uniform. His hands tightened on the box.

She was still prattling on about her improvements. “—it’s even impact resistant and—”

“No,” he said, cutting her short.

Bulma blinked at him, bewildered. “No? What do you mean, no?”

He threw the lid shut and shoved the box back at her. “No to this.”

Bulma caught the box on instinct, her face paling in shock. 

Vegeta crossed his arms. “Is that all?” he asked curtly. If she had nothing else to show him then he had no further need to stick around.

Her cheeks flushed and her gaze narrowed. “Is that _all_?” she repeated, her voice rising dangerously high. “I’ve worked my perfect ass off to make this for you, and that’s the thanks I get? ‘No’?”

“I never told you to,” he said coldly.

“You’re not supposed to. It’s a gift, you jerk!” she snapped back.

“A gift?” he sneered, his temper rising to meet her own. “More like a debt I’ll owe you. Isn’t that your thinking?”

Bulma threw the box on the ground between them. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Because if you want to play the debt game, how about the debt you owe for my hospitality, huh? You’re living in my house, eating my food, using my inventions and equipment, taking up my time and barely being civil to my parents. But have I once asked you for anything in return?”

Vegeta thinned his lips and looked away, having nothing to say in his defense.

“Well?” she demanded, not letting him get away with silence this time.

“You invited me, remember,” he replied sullenly. 

“Well if you can accept that, then you can accept one stupid present!” she shouted with exasperation. 

Vegeta kept his eyes down, refusing to meet hers, his arms tightening over his chest defensively. An awkward silence stretched between them. It was abhorrent. He needed to leave.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he spat, and tried to step around the box for the door but Bulma side-stepped in front of him. She put her hand on his arm, and though her strength was minimal, something in her touch kept him in place. 

“Vegeta,” she said, trying to catch his eyes.

He looked away, feeling suddenly queasy. Claustrophobic. Trapped.

“Hands,” he snapped, desperately latching on to anything to regain some control of the conversation. “You promised no touching.”

Bulma let her hand fall away, but she didn’t back down. “I don’t think that’s the problem, is it?” she asked, her tone unnervingly soft. “Vegeta, why won’t you accept the gift?”

He stayed silent, refusing to talk.

“Why aren’t you training today?”

Still silent. Why couldn’t she fucking leave things alone that weren’t her business!

“Why won’t you even look at me?”

God _damn_ her. To prove her wrong, Vegeta looked up.

And instantly regretted his decision. 

Her blue eyes shone with worrisome concern. The thought that she, a mere human, would pity him was more than he could bear. He mustered what pride he had left and took a threatening step towards her.

“I owe you no answers.”

“Vegeta, what are you afraid of?”

How _dare_ she. 

“I AM AFRAID OF NOTHING!” he screamed at her, his anger kicking in from 0 to 100 within nanoseconds. “The only one I was afraid of is dead, defeated at the hands of two men who are more jokes than Saiyan, yet somehow they achieved a legendary power that I, the last _true_ surviving Saiyan, haven’t been able to achieve no matter how much I bleed for it!” He bent down, snatching up the blue suit and shaking it in her face. “So what fucking good is this, Bulma? I don’t even have the right to wear it. They’re not the jokes, are they? I am.”

With that, Vegeta threw the suit at her feet and stormed out.

* * *

~xox~

 

The sky was painted in pinks and oranges by the time Vegeta returned to Capsule Corporation having finished his not-so-little temper tantrum against a few mountains in the middle of a desolate desert. Or if it hadn’t been desolate before, it certainly was now.

Covered in dirt and sweat he headed straight for the bathroom to wash off, then for bed, too drained to even muster the energy to eat.

With only a towel about his waist, his skin still warm from his shower, Vegeta paused when he entered his room. A suspicious looking long box lay on his bed. He approached it slowly. Sure enough, when he reached inside he found the blasted battle armor. That cursed woman. Was she mocking him by leaving this here?

He grabbed the blue suit in his fists and _wrenched_ but the fabric merely stretched accommodatingly.

Someone laughed. 

“I told you it wouldn’t tear easily,” Bulma teased, leaning in the doorway.

Vegeta glared at her over his shoulder. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, holding up the suit in accusation.

“Who else am I going to give it to?” she asked, letting herself into his room. “It’s made for you.”

“Tch.” 

He dropped the fabric back in the box and headed onto the balcony to escape both suit and woman. The soft pat of feet on tile told him he was only half successful.

“You know what I think?” Bulma announced, bracing her arms on the railing next to him and looking out at the backyard. Vegeta grimaced, preparing himself for her lecture. “You’re trying too hard.”

Come again? He looked at her suspiciously from the corner of his eye. Of all the things he expected her to say, that wasn’t one of them.

Maybe it was weariness. Maybe it was knowing that Bulma wouldn’t leave unless she had said all that she came to say. Whatever the motivation, Vegeta found himself asking her, “…What makes you say that?”

“Buddha.”

“What?”

“Not what, Vegeta. Who. The Buddha is a very wise and holy man. Do you know what he says?”

He glared at her. Of course he didn’t fucking know.

She smiled and turned to watch the colors of the sunset. “You only lose what you cling to.”

Vegeta frowned, trying to process that. “Is this another stupid Earth lie you tell children?”

Bulma laughed and turned to face him straight on. “No. In your case, I think it means the harder you try to control something, the more it’s going to control you.”

Vegeta didn’t much care for that logic. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

She shrugged. “Well, I thought you might like to think on it. After all, your method isn’t working, is it?”

“My method?” he sneered.

“Mmm.” Her eyes roved over his half-naked physique appreciatively. “You’re in great shape, Vegeta, and if the gravity readouts are anything to go by, you’re stronger than Son was when he transformed. So it really makes no sense that you can’t. That leads me to believe there must be some mental or emotional component you’re overlooking.”

He narrowed his eyes, thinking over what she said. It sounded plausible, except for one matter—

“Are you suggesting that Kakarot is mentally superior to me?”

Bulma laughed again. She looked so carefree it hurt. “Oh my god, no. Don’t get me wrong, Goku understands fighting like I understand quantum physics, but you and I both know he’s about as mentally complex as a peanut when it comes to anything else.”

Vegeta’s mouth twitched, almost smiling. His esteem for Bulma went up a few notches. 

“So what then?” he asked.

“So, what I’m saying is, Son transformed, not because of this,” she tapped her temple, “but probably because of this.” She tapped her chest. “It just… happened. You’re overthinking things. You need to embrace the moment, not strangle it. Just… let go.”

“Let go of what?” he huffed.

Bulma shrugged. “Who knows? That’s the mystery, isn’t it? But maybe it’s worth experimenting. It’s got to beat throwing yourself around in the gravity room for 18 hours every day, willing something to happen that won’t.”

She had a point. They stood in contemplative silence for a while, the sky bleeding red to purple to blue. A soft breeze cooled the lingering water on his skin and tugged at her curls.

“…What do you propose I do?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual. It wasn’t easy for him to ask for help.

Bulma turned over, leaning her back against the railing so that she could get a good look at him. “Well, maybe you should start with something small. Ease yourself into the habit of letting go a bit. Let’s see… What’s something you’ve been denying yourself? Dessert? A rest day?”

Did today count as a rest day? Not exactly. Today had been more about giving up than giving in. But she was right, he needed to try something different because the more he struggled to stay in control, the less he felt he had.

Letting go, giving in, embracing the moment. Was that really the answer he had been missing?

“Oh!” Bulma announced, flashing him a cheeky look. “I know. You could start by accepting a present from a certain smart, beautiful lady-friend? And telling her how amazing she is, and…”

Her voice trailed off as Vegeta approached, placing his arms either side her on the railing. He leaned over her, biceps flexing powerfully.

“I have a better idea of how I could ease myself in,” he suggested in a low voice.

“Oh,” Bulma stuttered. There was just enough light for him to see her blush. When she did not push him away, he inched closer.

Her soft curls danced in the wind, beckoning him, so he pressed his nose against her temple and breathed deeply. His eyes fell half-closed, and he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying her scent, sampling it, burning it into his memory until every cell in his body thrummed from her. She was a woman, young and fertile and blooming open just for him, growing sweeter by the second. She wanted him, and fuck if he didn’t want her too.

Bulma’s breath caught in her throat. She tilted her face to meet his, her petal-soft lips brushing sensually against his cheek. The tiny caress sent sparks of electricity right down to his cock. Pressing his advantage — and his body against her — , Vegeta carefully drew her in. He cupped her face in his palms so that he might relish her scent more. She was overwhelming, like a fruit he wanted to sink his teeth into, and without meaning to he found himself mouthing the pulse in her neck. Her skin tasted like sunshine and syrup.

Bulma whimpered. He swelled in victory when she titled her head to the side, letting him do as he pleased.

Clever fingers soon found the towel at his waist and _tugged_. The fabric fell to the ground between them, releasing his pent up need.

“I have a confession,” she moaned, stroking his hips, her breath hot against his cheek. “I was hoping for a striptease when I made you that suit.”

He should have known. The sneaky wench. He growled against her throat as if to reprimand her, but it came out far too playful to be threatening.

When the scent of her arousal was so thick he could taste it, Vegeta picked her up and carried her inside. Bulma wrapped her limbs around him and crushed her mouth to his.

Letting himself go, Vegeta kissed her back.

 

* * *

~xox~

 

 **AN:** I heard you guys like cliffhangers. 

 


	5. 5 Heavy Breathing

**05 - Heavy Breathing**

 

Vegeta shoved the box off the bed, sending the battle armor flying across the floor to lay Bulma in its place. She made for a much better present, and one he was more eager to slip into.

She clung to him like a drowning thing. For someone with such negligible strength, Bulma did a commendable job of holding on, clutching his face to her own as she taught him how to use his tongue for more than monologues and acerbic remarks. But try as he might, he couldn’t pin her down. Holding her was like trying to hold water, she kept rolling and undulating against him like waves on the sea. It was maddening. 

After long minutes, she broke their kiss, their mouths gasping wetly against each other. Her head dropped back against the pillow. Finally, he was free to take her. Vegeta shoved his hands under her shirt, pushing it up to bare her belly. He bit her tender flesh playfully, laving at her soft, smooth stomach and naval. Bulma squealed, arching back, baring her throat in what he presumed to be submission. The white column of her neck called to him as did her kittenish sounds of distress. His senses heightened, like a predator spotting a wounded animal, Vegeta went in for the kill. He slipped his hands into her hair to hold her still as he mouthed her neck, right at the same time as her clever fingers found his erection. She teased him in the same slowly-cruel way she had in the recovery room when he creamed himself in under three minutes.

“Enough!” he choked, frantically grabbing her wrists. He pushed her arms above her head, glaring at her. Their eyes met, both of them panting hard. Bulma gave in, laying docile in his grip for now.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking at him with big blue eyes. Her face was flushed and framed prettily amidst her ocean of curls.

His jaw worked. “Why do you keep _moving_?”

She blinked, baffled. Then her lips curled up in a slow smile and she dragged her legs over his hips. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He made a frustrated sound, shoving her off. “How can I fuck you when you’re wriggling about so much?”

Her breathless laugh grated on his nerves, her eyes dancing brightly. “I thought we _were_ fucking.”

She was making fun of him. Had to be. How could they be fucking if she was still in her goddamn clothes? The woman was infuriating. Vegeta tightened his fingers about her wrists in annoyance.

Her breathing faltered, a breathless moan falling from her lips. The sweet scent of her arousal permeated the air, making his nostrils flare. Well, wasn’t this familiar. He recalled a similar reaction from her in the recovery room; he had held her down then too. 

She had a _weakness_.

A warm, triumphant feeling swelled inside Vegeta, the same he felt during battle when victory was imminent. Smirking, he bowed over her, leaning more of his weight against her arms. “We will be fucking, just as soon as you spread your legs for me like a good little bitch.”

Bulma’s eyes darkened, with anger or arousal he couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. Both excited him. 

“I’m no one’s bitch,” she replied, her voice dangerously low. Her legs once again snuck up and looped over his hips. 

He shoved them back down. “You’re sure acting like one.”

“And you’re doing it again.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Doing what?”

“Trying to control the situation.”

He froze, her words a harsh slap to the face. Caught red handed. He was supposed to be losing himself in the moment, not grappling it — her — into submission.

Fuck.

He let her go. Doubts that Vegeta had earlier pushed aside came back with a vengeance. Unable to look her in the eye, he backed off, sitting on the edge of the bed to collect himself.

A moment later the mattress dipped next to him. He pulled up his knee to shield his flagging manhood from Bulma’s gaze.

“Just for the record,” she said, tugging her shirt down and then rubbing her wrists, “I like you being dominant in bed.” 

“Tch,” he replied, eyeing her hands from the corner of his eyes. Why did she rub them? Had he been too rough? He thought he had held back enough, but humans were so terribly frail.

“The trouble is, you’re still using this too much,” she continued, and she stopped rubbing her wrists to tap him on the brow. 

Vegeta tensed, watching as her index finger came right for him. Every fiber of his being stiffened, ready to snap, poised for her attack even though logically he knew she couldn’t hurt him, not by conventional methods. But Bulma wasn’t conventional: she was clever. Who knew what she could do if she put her mind to it? She had survived Namek after all. He couldn’t even say that.

Her finger pressed harmlessly against his forehead. “You’re not letting go. You’re all up here still, aren’t you?”

…Fuck. He really hated how she knew that.

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbled and scowled, slapping her hand away, frustrated for more reasons than he cared to think of right now.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help.”

“Help how?!” he demanded, growing more vexed by the second. “All you do is speak in goddamn riddles and play your psychological mind games.”

“Mind games? What are you talking about—”

“Don’t play coy,” he sneered at her. “You’re constantly in my head, hounding me every chance you get, acting friendly, smelling nice, pretending to be on my side. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m not one of your moronic friends you can manipulate. And I’m not some stray pet you can tame like your parents keep either.”

“Vegeta, I’m not—”

He didn’t let her finish, not interested in excuses.

“Forget it,” he snapped, standing up and going over to his drawers to put something on so that he wasn’t the only goddamn one naked in the room. He dug about in his array of useless human attire she had given him, looking for something appropriate. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking taking your advice. What would you possibly know that could help me? No wonder Kakarot keeps his distance from this infernal place.”

He found a pair of shorts that didn’t offend his sense of fashion.

Something smacked him  — hard — in the back of the head. His chest armor hit the floor and rolled to his feet. Vegeta touched his skull for blood, and shot Bulma a murderous glare over his shoulder. That _bitch_. 

“You dare—”

“You self-serving jerk!” she shouted, her voice alarmingly thick with emotion. She stood by his bed, her hands fisted and trembling at her sides. Her cheeks were hot and her eyes shone dangerously. Vegeta had never seen her this upset. “I might not be an expert on fighting, but I do know a thing or two about overthinking and having no one else to confide in. I know all about getting stuck in your own head because the only person you can rely on is yourself, and you start to feel like that’s all there is. But you know what I learned? That there’s strength in working with others, in learning to trust other people, even if they aren’t perfect or it makes you feel vulnerable. Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass for one friggin’ minute, you could see that!”

Vegeta stood in the wake of her outburst, stunned, the clothing in his hand falling back in the drawer all but forgotten.

When he didn’t respond, Bulma made a frustrated sound and turned from him, heading for the door. 

Where the hell was she going? 

What the hell had she been screaming about?

_What the hell was happening?_

Deeply unsatisfied with the turn of events and his inability to respond appropriately, Vegeta beat her to the door, slamming it closed just as she started to pull it open. Nobody hit him and got away with it, and he certainly wasn’t going to let her leave with the last word, not without him at least understanding what the fuck they were arguing about. He kept his hand on the door to block her exit.

“We’re not done here,” he growled.

“Well I am!” she said, tugging uselessly on the door handle. He might have laughed at her feeble attempt if she didn’t sound so upset. She kept her head ducked down, hiding behind her bangs. “I have more important things to do than to stroke your _ego_ ,” she spat, her insinuation heavy enough that he blushed. Damn, he wished he had put those shorts on.

“I’m not talking about _that_ ,” he snapped. He tried to lean in to look at her, but Bulma turned her face away. It surprised him. She never backed down from a staring match. “I don’t need _you_ for that.”

Bulma stopped tugging on the handle. Slowly she bowed over it, crumpling up like burnt paper and let out a strange, strangled laugh. It was weak and hollow, and Vegeta had the uncomfortable feeling she wasn’t actually amused. 

“N-no, why would you need me for sex?” she asked, her voice so broken he could barely make out her words. “Why would a-anyone need me for anything? Let’s all just u-use Bulma when it’s convenient, and leave her behind when it’s not!”

Oh no.

She was… crying?

Stunned, Vegeta stood helplessly by and watched her sob over the handle. 

Holy shit. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t leave, she was standing in front of the exit. He could take the balcony window but that felt too cowardly. Besides, this was _his room_.

“Bulma,” he said.

She kept crying, her heavy breathing hitching between sobs.

“Bulma,” he tried again, a little louder this time. “I… don’t know what the appropriate Earth custom is in this situation.”

“Y-you can suck a dick,” she sobbed.

“I fail to see how that—”

“O-oh my god, Vegeta, i-it’s called sarcasm.”

She continued crying, and Vegeta decided the best course of action was to let her.

After several minutes of heart-wrenching tears, Bulma finally calmed down. Wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve, she peered balefully at him from over her shoulder.

“You’re still naked,” she croaked.

“Good observational skills,” he drawled. “Perhaps while you’re in the enlightening mood, you would like to tell me what this is all about?”

She glanced away, wiping at her eyes some more. “Nothing. I’m just surrounded by assholes.” She looked at him again, wincing. “Metaphorically and _literally_. Could you please put something on? You’re very…” she waved a hand at his naked physique, “distracting.”

He grunted and left her to fetch his shorts and pulled them on as Bulma curled up in his armchair, tucking her knees under her chin while looking generally miserable. He glanced around and finally decided to sit on the coffee table opposite her.

“Well?” he prodded.

She huffed, the air puffing up her bangs. “You struck a nerve is all. Don’t let it go to your ego.”

“According to you, my ego’s already at capacity. I think you’re safe.”

She smiled. It was a weak, fragile thing, but a smile nonetheless. He wasn’t prepared to admit how relieved he was to see it. 

“You humans are too sensitive, too emotional,” he lectured her in the kindest voice he could muster. “You need to be more like us. Crush your feelings like you would your enemies. They will only hurt you.”

Bulma arched a skeptical brow. “Wow, how barbaric.”

“It is the warrior way.”

“I’m honestly surprised hearing all that from you.”

“Me?” he asked, frowning. He was a paradigm of Saiyan stoicism.

“Yes. I mean, take Son. He’s always been so carefree, you know? Hardly ever gets angry or sad or jealous. Emotionally, he’s neutral. But you? Jeez, Vegeta, you’re a hornets nest of emotion. One poke and all hell breaks loose. Sure, it’s mostly anger, but still… You can’t feel anger unless you _feel_ something. Same for depression.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who said I was depressed?”

Bulma shrugged. “I do, I guess.”

“Tch. You are delusional.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“What?” he asked, truly baffled.

Bulma sighed, shaking her head. “Earth expression. Never mind.”

They both lapsed into silence. 

Vegeta bristled with indignation. It was irksome to think she had been watching him and jumping to ridiculous conclusions about his mental state. Didn’t she have anything better to do?

As far as he knew she did. From what he could tell she worked nearly as much as he did, toiling away in her lab while he labored in the gravity room day after day. And when that didn’t satisfy, surely there were other people that she could pester? Like the Namekians, there were dozens of those bastards… well, had been. Vegeta frowned, realizing it had been months now, maybe even a year since they left. Okay, forget the Namekians. She had her parents. Not that they were around much, and when they were their conversations were limited to social niceties and scientific research. Not exactly riveting. So that just left Bulma with Kakarot’s little group of idiots. At least they could prove amusing, in the same way it was amusing to watch ants scatter from strategically placed ki blasts. What were their names again? Vegeta struggled to recall, he hadn’t heard their names in months, much less seen their faces, not even Scar-face who had been sniffing around her… 

Oh.

Vegeta’s head jerked up, looking at Bulma with large eyes.

She was just as alone as he was. Only she hid it better. Or maybe she didn’t but he was too self-centered to notice before now because when did he _ever_ think of anyone besides himself? It never crossed his mind that the only social interaction she might get was with him. Every word she spoke, every smile she gave him hadn’t been some trick, but an attempt to connect with him and ease that all-consuming emptiness he knew too well: loneliness.

“What?” she grumbled, her fingers toying with the hem of her pants. “You look like you swallowed a fly.”

Vegeta hesitated. What should he say, if he should say anything at all? This was clearly a touchy subject, a matter of her pride ( _that_ , he could understand), and he had accidentally rubbed salt in her wound. Normally, that would please him, but not now. Not with her. Whatever this was that they had going on, this weird symbiotic relationship, Vegeta didn’t want it ruined. Not because of any sappy sentimentality; he was no idiot. He needed her for pragmatic reasons. She was good at fixing things, and he was a broken weapon. 

“I don’t… distrust you,” he admitted.

Bulma blinked up at him, frowning, trying to puzzle out this sudden confession. “What?”

Feeling oddly self-conscious, Vegeta looked down at his hands. It was ingrained in his DNA to trust no one, but as far as his trust scale went (from _As bad as Frieza_ , to, _I’ll kill you last_ ), Bulma ranked pretty highly. 

“You were saying something about learning to trust people,” he grumbled by way of explanation.

Bulma let out a wry sound. “Ah. Given up on the idea that I’m trying to poison you?”

“Well, if you mean to, you’re taking your damn time about it.”

“Believe me, it’s a daily temptation,” she drawled, giving him a lopsided smile. “Maybe I am poisoning you, slowly, a little bit each day?”

He smirked back. “No, I don’t think poison is your style.”

“No?”

“No. You’re more Saiyan than that.”

“Me?” she asked, stunned by his compliment.

Vegeta’s smirk grew. “Yes. You’re far more direct. And violent. You wanted to kill the androids at the source. You socialize with fighters. You even resort to violence yourself,” he said, glancing over to where his chest plate rested on the floor. 

Her gaze followed his, her lips curling up at the memory of hitting him.

“And,” he added, leaning forward, his voice dipping lower. He braced his arms on her chair, trapping her between it and him. “You go right for what you want. Without mercy.”

It pleased him to see her pupils dilate at his proximity. 

“That’s being Saiyan?” she asked, not backing away. They watched each other, like two predators circling, waiting for some unspoken signal to pounce.

“Very,” he purred. 

They continued reading each other. Her eyes were still pink from crying, but Vegeta could see the wheels of her mind in motion, calculating, weighing options, assessing him. Did she dare give him another chance?

“So, what do you want, Vegeta?” she asked, her voice laced with suggestion, the question curling around him.

That warm, triumphant feeling of victory once again swelled inside.

He grabbed the arms of her chair and _pulled_. The legs squealed as he yanked her closer. She gasped, her eyes going wide as he brought her close enough for their knees to press together and their noses to touch. He snatched her tiny waist and pulled her closer against him.

“I want to be a Super Saiyan,” he growled, his words bristling with his hunger. He could taste the transformation. It felt ever-present, looming ethereally in the back of his mind like a figure in his peripheral vision that vanished when looked at directly. He would do anything to claim it, even if it meant claiming her. Especially if it did.

“Is that all?” she asked, so quiet he thought he had imagined her speak. Her hands splayed on his chest, the last vestige of her resistance. 

Was that all? They both knew what she meant: did he want her? He did, he could admit that now, but was it because she could help him attain his goal, or because there was something compelling about her? 

Vegeta raised a hand, fingering a soft blue curl, trying to puzzle her out. Her hair slipped against his rough skin like silk. He pressed on it, flattening the curl in his grip, but the moment he let it go, it sprang back to life. So much like its owner. She was like no one he had ever known, or rather, bothered to get to know. Most people he held this close would be filling the air with death pleas, not pheromones of desire.

He nuzzled her cheek to better inhale her smell, and a tremor of want shuddered through him, pooling in his cock. Her breathing was quickening and he heard her whimper as his hand slipped under the back of her shirt. He used his other hand to caress her face, brushing his thumb against her cheek and down her slender throat, ghosting over her pulse. There, a mark from his mouth colored her skin. Something possessive curled in his gut.

No, he couldn’t say why he wanted her. Self-honesty wasn’t his strong suit. But whatever the motivation was, he did want her. Now.

Wrapping his fingers about the back of her neck, Vegeta pulled her mouth against his. “I want to learn to let go, inside of you,” he confessed hotly.

Bulma’s lips trembled, her arms caving, giving in. “What makes you think you can?”

“Because I don’t stop until I’ve mastered a technique.”

* * *

~xox~

 

 **AN:** Sorry for the delay on this prompt. On top of life stuff, I ended up re-writing this three times, so it took longer than anticipated. Hope it was worth the wait tho. Thanks to stupidoomdoodles for some detailed encouragement ^_^

 


	6. 06 Guilty Pleasure

**06 - Guilty Pleasure**

 

Agony. Vegeta was no stranger to the concept, but Bulma was testing his limits of endurance as she ground her little hips against his lap, her lips brushing achingly sweet over his mouth.

He did his damnedest not to take control. That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. _Let go. Let it happen. Be in the moment._

Easier said than fucking done. His fingers twitched, impatient to end this slow torture and throw her down on the bed for a good hard fuck.Her eyes were an electric storm, darkened by dilated pupils. Grinding against his erection, tiny whimpers of need escaped her, calling to the caged beast in him — long overdue to be set free — begging for him to rut with her. 

“You’re burning up,” Bulma gasped against his kiss-bruised lips. She wasn’t wrong, he felt on fire, but so did she, a fire nymph disguised in water colors. She pried herself off his torso and, grabbing the hem of her shirt, lifted it over her head to give him an unobstructed view of her breasts. Rose-petal nipples perked cutely up at him.

Holy shit… What did you do when faced with two perfect pale breasts? Vegeta didn’t know and couldn’t think of anything because all the blood in his brain had committed mutiny, leaving his thoughts to flatline. Tearing his gaze away, he looked up at her face in helpless appeal.

A confident smile curled her lips. “Now we’re equal,” she purred, stroking his bare chest. They were both topless, but there was nothing equal about their situation, not when he was pinned under her and shackled by some arbitrary rule not to take control. His internal agony must have shown because she took pity on him, wrapping her slender arms around his neck and allowing her soft breasts to graze against his pectorals. A shudder of pleasure went through him. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. Nerves ignited at the touch of her soft skin against his rough, scarred body. In all his years of planet purging, he had never encountered anyone like her, so untainted. What the hell had he done to land this rare treasure in his lap?

He grabbed her hips before remembering he wasn’t supposed to, and let his hands fall away. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You said I had to let go.” 

She nuzzled his jaw. “I meant let go of your obsessive control issues, not for you to go limp on me.” He scowled. He was _anything_ but limp. Bulma encouraged him to put his hands back on her waist, all the while her warm breath tickled his cheek. “Mm, that’s better. I like your hands on me.”

These hands? That had killed so many, destroyed so much? There was something seriously wrong with her, but he gripped her tighter nonetheless. 

“Besides,” Bulma added. “The real issue is you’re still controlling yourself, aren’t you? Holding back.”

Goddamn her. “If you're so fucking smart, then tell me what I’m supposed to do,” he snapped, glaring at her in frustration.

The smile she gave him was equal parts sweet and sin, and made him swallow nervously. “What do you want right now, more than anything else?”

He glared at her with suspicion.

She laughed. “C’mon, homeboy. Confess.”

Hadn’t they just been over this? “The Super Sai—”

She pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him mid-sentence which he thought was awfully rude. No one shut him up. “Liar. That’s your _dream_ , but that’s not what you want right this second, is it?” As if to prove a point, she began a slow roll, grinding up and down the length of his erection. He bit back a moan. “There are more pressing matters than besting Goku right now, aren’t there?” she teased. 

“Tch.” Fucking hell…

Pressing her breasts snuggly against him, Bulma let him go and started fingering the hair at the nape of his neck. “Let me guess… You want to do something to me?” 

 Visions of her spread under him as he pistoned in and out filled his mind. He refused to answer her, but she didn’t need him too, continuing her slow torture against his straining need. He swelled, growing heavier by the second. Throbbing. _Fuck._  

“Would you like to cum inside me?” she whispered hotly against his mouth, her eyes pinning his.

A strangled groan betrayed him. She grinned in triumph. Fuck her, fuck this. Why had he agreed to this moronic exercise?At least when he trained he knew the suffering that he was getting himself into. This, _this_ was cruel _._

“Or maybe,” she purred, licking at his mouth, “Maybe you want _me_ to do something to _you_? I recall you enjoyed my hand.”

God, no. He wouldn’t last seconds if she did that, not now, as hard as he was. But she had already opened the zip to his shorts by the time he thought to protest. Slender fingers slipped inside and found him. His cock jumped in her hand like a puppy eager for its master’s touch. 

“F-uck.” The word was torn from between his clenched teeth as she started stroking him.

“Shh, there’s a good boy,” she soothed. 

Normally he would tell her to fuck off calling _him_ of all people ‘good’ or a boy, but his vitriol abandoned him, dissipating like smoke in the wind as his whole world centered on what she was doing with her magic fingers. She pressed on some sweet spot that caused him to buck and _whimper_ humiliatinglyagainst her cheek, his cock drooling over her hand.

“Mm, that’s it,” she crooned. “Doesn’t it feel good to let someone else help you? Just give in, Vegeta. Let go.”

A soft growl escaped him, a tortured thing, a mixture of frustration, pain, and helplessness. He struggled with himself to do as she said, warring with his better nature to keep his walls up, to take the lead, to not use her and just… enjoy. 

His mind and heart might have been conflicted, but his body wasn’t. She played him so expertly that within a minute he felt a familiar swell rushing towards him. Her other hand dragged fingernails down his chest, and her mouth whispered sweet nothings in his ear, telling him how hard and strong and magnificent he was, and he was done done done. With a strangled cry he grabbed her and thrust up, spilling himself all over her hand and his shorts.

And there, just for the briefest of moments, floating, barely perceptible, he felt something he had never felt before. 

Free.

“Oh, good boy, you came so quickly for me,” she purred, still easing him through the aftershocks. Her honeyed words rolled over him like a summer breeze. How badly he wanted to believe them, and he felt instantly ashamed for doing so. 

Breathing heavily, he grabbed her hand to slow her down. “I am not a _good boy_ ,” he hissed, his voice hoarse and deeper than usual.

Bulma laughed, a warm, breathless sound. Pressing her silken breasts to his sweaty chest, she husked, “Prove me wrong.”

Even the smell of his freshly spilt seed couldn’t mask how badly she wanted him. Lucky for her, Saiyans recovered quickly. His lips curled up in a sadistic little smile, and he scooped her into his arms, carrying her over to the bed to show her just how much of a bad man he could be.

 

~xox~

 

Of all the people in his life, Vegeta supposed his father had been the most gentle, if you could call the King that. Bulma wouldn’t, in fact she would be appalled to learn all the things that his father had put him through, but next to others like Zarbon and Frieza, his father’s brief guardianship had been the most lenient. So it wasn’t that surprising that Vegeta didn’t understand the concept of a nurturing mentor. Experience had been his teacher, and it taught him cruel but valuable lessons. Strength meant power. Power meant control. Control meant freedom.

And above all else, he had learned to never rely on or trust anyone. Ever.

Except Bulma was turning those theories on their head. Vegeta wasn’t sure how much he bought into her way of thinking, but he was willing to explore their possibilities, especially if the payoff meant gaining the Legendary.

Bulma was a much different teacher than he was used to. She nurtured him, guiding him with her body as much with positive reinforcement. It was unsettling to always wait for ridicule or pain, for the other shoe to drop that never did. Little by little, his reservations started to crack. Learning from her was… nice. Or maybe that was just the sex.

Holy fuck, the _sex_. It wasn’t some quick passionless fuck to scratch an itch. He came to appreciate her lessons. A lot. From the first time he pinned her to the bed he was hooked, devouring her, his nose leading him between her legs to lap at that exquisite smell she gave off around him. She liked that, squealing and grabbing his hair, rutting herself against his mouth like a cat in heat.

He finally sank into her, fulfilling his promise to come inside her, all the while her eyes desperately locked onto his and her body shivered under him like a broken bird. Drowning, he lost himself in her for just a moment as she clung to him for salvation. Him, save something. Ridiculous…

Yet he dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, she was right. He could unlock some hidden part of himself, whatever that elusive component was, and reach the Super Saiyan form. It was there, _right there_. With her help, he could touch it. 

She was his tool, a stepping stone in reaching his goal. Visiting her was nothing more than an exercise. After practicing his katas in the GR, he would visit her to practice ‘letting go’. That’s all it was, just training. Nothing more. It didn’t matter that he found himself looking forward to the evenings, that he started ending his training earlier to meet her, that he lingered longer and longer in her bed afterwards, sometimes sleeping there until dawn, waking up with his arm over her tiny waist and her nose buried against his chest. She could have killed him in his sleep but he had trusted her not to, and she him. He refused to acknowledge the guilty pleasure she had become. What of it, so long as it gave him what he wanted.

The Super Saiyan. It was there. Right there…

He grew stronger, by day he pushed the limits of the GR and his body, and by night he learned how to make her arch and claw the sheets and scream his name until the whole house rattled with it. But months dragged on, and time was running out.

…It wasn’t working. They had already lost half the time before the androids were due to arrive, and as far as transformations went, he was still impotent. Every day, every _hour_ that he didn’t change added to the weight on his shoulders that he bore in the burning red intensity of the GR. He couldn’t make it happen. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t _fair_. How had Kakarot done it? HOW?!

The screen in the GR came on. Turning angry eyes to Bulma’s projected image, his body buckling under 450 times Earth gravity, Vegeta snarled at her disruption. “What is it?”

“You missed dinner.”

Was it that late already? “That’s what you’re interrupting me about?” he snapped.

She hesitated. That was unlike her. “…Are you joining me tonight?”

He looked away and grunted. “Later.”

“Okay…”

The screen turned off, leaving him unsettled. He pushed through training for another couple of hours, just so Bulma didn’t get the impression that she could command his time. He tried to clear his head and find that quietness where he just _was,_ the same feeling he got when he spent himself inside her, panting raggedly against her pale throat. He powered up, charging his ki and building his rage. _I AM VEGETA, PRINCE OF ALL SAIYANS. I DEMAND MY BIRTHRIGHT!_ The GR trembled. Drones shattered and the lights flickered, but all he managed to do was exhaust himself.

God fucking _damnit_.

After a shower where the water felt tepid next to his burning frustration, Vegeta made his way to her room. She was in bed, her naked shoulder peaking out from beneath the sheets. It was all the invitation he needed. He stripped off and climbed in next to her.

“How was your day?” she asked, turning to greet him, reaching out to brush her thumb over his furrowed brow. 

He grabbed her hand and pinned it down because she liked it, and because he was in no mood for tenderness right now. Ignoring her question, he dived right for her throat and bit her this side of too-hard.

His reward hit his nose as her pheromones burst to life. She moaned and tried to fight him off. Cute.

“W-wait, Vegeta, I have something to tell you,” she protested weakly.

“Later,” he snapped. Licking up her beating pulse, he found another of her weak points right behind her ear and grazed it with his teeth, pressing her into the mattress with his body. Her shiver of submission ignited his own lust.

“It’s important,” she whined, but her words were already breathy, her legs falling apart to allow him between.

What could be more important than this, then helping him achieve the Super Saiyan? He pushed inside her, filling her in one rough thrust, and didn’t stop moving.

“Ah! Not so rough—” she protested, so he kissed her complaints away but didn’t slow down. He was frantic, manic, driving himself into her in search of an answer he couldn’t find inside himself. She was such a vulgar thing and came quickly, her insides contracting tightly around him. He did not cave, fucking her even harder than before until she crumbled and sobbed and came again, and this time he followed.

But there was no peace, no floating euphoria. Only a grey buzzing noise filled his mind, and a sick weight grew in his gut.

He pulled away and left her there, wet, used, and gasping in bed as he retreated to the privacy of the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror glared back. 

It was a lie. It had been a lie all this time, one he had foolishly given himself in to. How did he think he was supposed to find the answer of a Saiyan legend between the legs of some pathetic human woman? She wasn’t helping him, she was _sabotaging_ him. All this time he could have been training longer and harder, but instead he distracted himself with pleasures of the flesh. How pathetic did she think he was, wrapped around her little finger?

His hands gripped the bathroom sink, and the porcelain cracked under his grip. 

Enraged, he grabbed some tissue and wiped away the evidence of their sex, throwing the used paper in the trash where it fell on top of a strange plastic strip with two blue lines that smelled vaguely of ammonia.

He stormed back into the room to grab his clothes.

“You’re not spending the night?” she asked, the blanket pulled over her waist but her breasts were on full display. He kept his eyes averted, his mouth turning down sourly.

“I’m leaving,” he said as he pulled on his pants.

“Wait, leaving? Vegeta, I have to tell you—”

“Tell me what, Bulma?” he exploded, teeth gnashing. “About how much of a colossal waste of time this has been? I tried it your way and it failed. I won’t have you holding me back any more, understand?”

He glanced at her to make sure she did. The look in her eyes haunted him all the way out into space.

 

* * *

~xoXox~

 


	7. 07 AfterGlow

****_“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be. When I let go of what I have, I receive what I need.”_ \- Lao Tzu

 

**07 - After Glow**

 

Her body, skin pale as the new moon, moved over his, grinding… grinding… His scarred hands grabbed her tiny waist as if afraid she might dissipate into the night and leave him aching and alone. He helped set their rhythm until they both groaned, gasped, and melted against each other. 

She crooned against his mouth. “Vegeta, I have something to tell you.”

Alarm bells rang in his head. “What is it?” 

“WARNING. WARNING. IMPACT IMMINENT.”

Vegeta jerked awake and blinked open bleary eyes in confusion. He was alone. A cold sweat dampened his body, his Saiyan uniform sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He had taken the armor with him when he left Earth, determined to return worthy of wearing it, or not return at all. An angry red light flashed in the spaceship as a siren blared. STORM APPROACHING. WARNING. WARNING.

Vegeta tried to get up, but the moment he did his legs gave out and he fell to his hands and knees on the metallic floor. Pain lanced every fiber of his being. He was exhausted, having trained to the brink of death on this god-forsaken hellhole, a barren planet that felt as empty and scarred as he was. But at least it was _distraction free_. He had landed here, intending to put everything on the line. 

Transform or die. No excuses.

He trained and trained and trained until, on the verge of passing out, he crawled to bed and prayed for a dreamless sleep that didn’t come. Rinse and repeat. It was grueling. The routine hadn’t felt quite so taxing back on Earth where he had home-cooked meals, a soft bed, and a warm body to greet him at the end of each day. In space, it was too easy to lose track of time without a rising sun or gracious hosts to remind him of meal times. He trained to the point of no return with nothing but a hard cot to retire to, and freeze-dried packet food which he rationed sparingly. Who knew how long he would be out here for.

Staggering to his feet, Vegeta stumbled to the computer to take in the report. A giant electrical storm was ripping across the planet’s surface. Frowning, he forced his body to comply and made for the door. Shoving it open, the smell of ozone blasted him full-force.Giant spears of lightening burst across the skies, illuminating the desolate planet and splintering the earth into chalk where it struck. He smiled, the raging intensity of the weather outwardly echoed his soul. This is just what he needed to fill that gaping black space inside him.

He headed out to meet the storm. He trained for hours, his body pleading for rest which he ignored. 

_Transform or die. No excuses._

A rock fragment shot past his cheek. Looking up, he saw meteors falling. Goddamnit it, the ship! He had to protect it, or he could kiss his chance of ever getting back to Earth goodbye.

 _Why Earth_?

A vision of blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and pale skin filled his mind, but as quickly as it came he banished it, and replaced it instead with his nemesis: Kakarot. That third-rate buffoon — and everyone else — would be in for a shock to see what a _real_ Super Saiyan looked like. Oh, how they would all tremble at the sight of him, forced to acknowledge that _he_ was the superior Saiyan.

But gloating would have to wait.

Launching into the air, Vegeta hurried to defend the ship from the hail of rocks that pelted down from the angry skies. Blast after blast, he vaporized every meteor that threatened to penetrate the ship’s hull. It should have been child’s play, but he was already on the precipice of collapse. There was nothing else he could do but empty his mind and lose himself to the rhythm of destruction.

The last rock exploded into dust at the touch of his ki. The air stung as he sucked it in, thick with dust and buzzing with energy. There was a strange weight in the air, and a shadow settled over him. Vegeta turned. What he saw gave birth to a dread he hadn’t felt since coming face to face with Frieza on Namek. A meteor, as large as a city, fell towards him. He was running on fumes. It was ironic, really, to think that he, Destroyer of Worlds, would be taken out by the remnants of one.

No. _Not like this_.

He screamed and threw his arms forward, blasting the meteor. The giant rock slowed but didn’t stop. Creeping onwards, it continued its deadly descent. 

 _You’ll die the same way they told you that your people had_.

Filled with an incomprehensible rage, Vegeta dredged up the last fragments of his energy and put all — every last piece of himself — into blowing up the oncoming rock. His body was splitting from the inside out, overwrought. Finally, mercifully, the meteor shattered.

But so did he.

Thrown backwards, he was flung through the air and smashed through rock, his bones breaking on each impact. He didn’t have the energy to protect himself; only her suit kept him in one piece. He struck the earth hard, a plume of smoke bursting in the wake of his crash. As the dust settled, the wet sound of his breath rattled heavily in the ensuing silence. But death didn’t come; he was too good at surviving. _Never give up._ That had been his mantra, the only thing that had sustained him and got him up every time he was struck down. _You’ve only lost when you believe you’re beaten_. Refusing to give in kept him going.

Vegeta clawed his way out of the debris and saw the ship still intact. There should have been relief, triumph, satisfaction, but he felt none of those. Something tore at the very fabric of his being. He had nearly died to save one lousy ship, but _what the fuck else did he have_?

His people and enemy were gone, and every day that he couldn’t transform chipped away more of his pride. Kakarot could turn it on and off as easily as a fucking light switch…

He had lost.

He had nothing, _was_ nothing. Vengeance and pride had spurned him on for years, but what of them? _Who was he_? A fool, and a worthless one at that. The universe wouldn’t even blink if he died. He didn’t matter. Maybe he never had. He couldn’t save his father or his race, he couldn’t kill Frieza, and if the boy from the future was to be believed, he was destined to die a quick and inglorious death at the hands of some androids. He was a failure. All his life he had struggled and fought for nothing.

A giant wave of emotion surged up and engulfed him, far too reminiscent of the despair he had felt when he cried at Frieza’s feet. He had failed then too. Fortune had seen fit to give him a second chance, but he had wasted it. 

Slamming his shattered fist into the ground, Vegeta swore in frustration, but the physical pain couldn’t mask his emotional loss. He was done. Fuck Kakarot, fuck the Super Saiyan, fuck her, fuck _everything_.

Putting a hand over his face, Vegeta finally did what he hadn’t allowed himself to do with her, and let it all go.

…

…!

What…?

What was this? This sensation? It _burned_. It swept over him, overwhelming, igniting every nerve and vein with liquid fire, and shredded his mind and body. It scorched his lungs, forcing a scream of agony from him. Light, more blinding than the electrical storm, burst outwards, and energy erupted from deep inside to spill without end. The pain ebbed, and through the fire of his mind, Vegeta realized that he lived.

Amazed, Vegeta looked down at his torn hands to see wave after wave of energy sluicing off him. His body _thrummed_ with it. It filled every atom of his core with a godly strength.

He was… this was…

The Super Saiyan!

At last. _At long last_! The Legendary was his! Maniacal laughter burst forth as he launched into the air and held out his palm. His ki-blast burst clean through the planet and shot out into the depths of space, trailing off further than his eyes could see. It was real. This was real! He had done it, all on his own.

Basking in the afterglow of his achievement, Vegeta turned back to the ship. It was time to reclaim his title. He would show them who was the strongest, and prove his superiority. He didn’t _need_ their validation, no, they simply needed to be taught a lesson. After all, he didn’t need any of them, not a single one of them. Never had, never will. He was _invincible_! 

Just wait until they saw.

 

* * *

~xoXox~

* * *

 

 **AN:** Aaaand we all know how well _that_ turned out, don’t we? :/

Thus concludes my entry for the 2017 October Vegebul Smutfest hosted by ThePrinceAndTheHeiress.

 

MarcellaDuchamp has pointed out that the song ‘What You Do To Me’ by John Legend is a very appropriate fit for this fic, and I would strongly agree.

 

Can you believe I wrote a serious canon-ish 3 year-gap story? Wonders never cease, huh? Now, back to some AUs…

 

Thanks to everyone for your encouraging and kind comments!  <3  Nothing motivates a writer like some hungry readers XD <3


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